


Love in the Time of Coronavirus

by thebermuda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: COVID19, Coronavirus, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:02:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23392948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebermuda/pseuds/thebermuda
Summary: To get closer to his new co-worker Richard, Severin agrees to a weekend work trip at a countryside mansion. When they're ordered to shelter in place, Severin suddenly has seven full days to spend with Richard—who is not as shy and innocent as he thought.
Relationships: Richard Brook/Severin Moran
Comments: 26
Kudos: 15





	1. Shelter in Place

**Author's Note:**

> Just trying not to go crazy while in quarantine. Since I've recently been getting more notifications on my stories, I figured other severich fans are in the same boat. Don't expect this story to be anything great, since my mind is kind of all over the place right now.
> 
> Wishing everyone peace and health. <3

“The city’s mayor is urging all citizens to stay indoors for the next seven to fourteen days,” the newscaster said. “Staying inside will prevent you from spreading infection to your neighbors, including the elderly and those with pre-existing health conditions. It will also help keep you safe from infection.”

At the bottom of the screen, the names of all the schools that were closed for the next month scrolled by. The newscaster began to talk about common myths involving face masks, but Richard muted the TV. He’d heard enough.

“Richard!” Inge shrieked.

“Turn that back on,” Todd demanded.

Richie squeaked and dropped the remote. Suddenly, all the members of his theater group were speaking at once, some scrambling over him on the couch to grab the remote.

A hand flashed out and retrieved it. Richie knew it was Severin even though he hadn’t realized Severin was in the room before just now—but he could smell his cologne, the heady, masculine scent Richie had committed to memory.

“We don’t need to watch more,” Severin said.

It was as if he’d commanded them all to be silent. Everyone straightened up, looking to him like he had the answers, as if he weren’t the newest member of the theater group. A part-time stagehand at that, invited to this weekend party only because Inge had some wild fantasy that she was going to hook him up with Richie.

“I just looked up the train schedule online,” Severin said, “to see if we could leave.”

“We’re not leaving until Sunday night,” Todd interrupted. “Because unlike _you,_ who was invited last minute, the rest of us actually paid to rent out this place.”

“Don’t be rude,” Richie said, too quietly for anyone to hear.

“Severin’s right, though,” Inge said. “If we don’t leave now we might not be able to get back at all—”

Severin raised his hand, and once again the room went quiet.

“I didn’t say we should leave tonight,” he said calmly. “Because, actually, we can’t. The local train station has been roped off to prevent unnecessary travel. I called a cab service to see if someone could take us to the station in the next town over, but the cab company said they’re sending their drivers home for at least the next week.”

“So...what does that mean?” Richie asked, while everyone else just stared wordlessly at Severin.

Severin locked eyes with him, and Richie felt his cheeks warm. Severin was so aggressively handsome, his every minute gesture overwhelming. It was clear that was why Todd hated him.

“It means we’re stuck here,” Severin said. “At least for a bit.”

“Is there enough toilet paper?” Inge asked frantically.

“They’ll be plenty of supplies in the closest,” Severin said, taking out his phone. “I’m going to call the owner and let her know we can’t leave.”

“I’m the one who reserved this place!” Todd snarled. _“I’ll_ call her.”

He stomped up to Severin and snatched Severin’s phone, even though he was clearly holding his own phone in his other hand. Severin just watched him leave the room, his lips quirking up in vague amusement.

* * * *

It went down like this: Todd came back to announce that the owner of the manor house would extend their rental period free of charge; everyone turned instinctively to Severin for directions; Severin recommended they do what had been on their agenda all along, which was drinking aimlessly until deep into Saturday morning.

The manor house was too big for their tiny crew of twenty, so they congregated in the dimly lit dining room full of glittering chandeliers and heavy Rococo pieces, too glamorous for their cheap wine and supermarket foods.

Richie fretted, dashing around to move vases just before tipsy elbows knocked into them, pushing chairs under wobbly feet and restocking the bar, since no one else seemed inclined to. When the trays full of finger sandwiches were depleted by actors eager to put something in their stomachs other than vodka, Richie swept into the kitchen to whip up more.

They had plenty of food to last them a week or even longer, but Richie felt enormous pressure at the prospect of having to feed twenty people breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the next seven days.

Of course, no one had _asked_ him to cook at all, but that was how these work trips went: Richard was the de facto caterer, and no one, not even Inge, ever thought to—

“Can I help you?”

“Oh!” Richie jumped a solid foot in the air, his knife clattering on the counter.

“You scare easily,” Severin observed.

Here was the thing about Severin: Any man could be very tall, or have the arms and shoulders of an Adonis, or smell incredibly good, or dress in tight leather. Scratch that. Basically no men possessed any of those qualities. But Severin had them all, and yet somehow he seemed _gentle._

Todd, Richard’s ex, wasn’t even half as good-looking as Severin, and yet he went around with a sneer and a strut that let everyone know he knew exactly how attractive he was. Severin looked at people like he wasn’t even thinking about himself at all, and that was astonishing, because he had every right to. He looked at people like he saw nothing but them. At least that’s how Richie felt when Severin was looking at him.

“Sorry,” Richie chirped. An automatic apology. He was full of those.

Severin ignored it. “Were you planning on asking anyone for help, or you were just going to labor away in the kitchen by yourself?”

“Oh! I don’t—I don’t need help,” Richard said. “Why did you come in here? Do you need something?”

“You need help,” Severin said with calm certainty. “I came in here to tell you to sit down while I finish making the sandwiches.”

Richie scrunched his nose. “You’re bossy.”

Severin blinked at him. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I’m not offended!” Richie said. “I...”

He liked it. Obviously he liked it—it was fucking _delicious_ when Severin commanded a room with zero effort. It did things to Richie.

“Sit,” Severin said, gesturing to a bar stool at the island counter. “You’ve worked enough.”

Richie complied this time, taking a seat. He had the absurd thought that Severin might not know how to make a sandwich properly, because it didn’t seem like the kind of thing a man like Severin would know how to do, but then Severin was arranging slices and deli meats all in a row, assembling neat little sandwiches in a clear, methodical order. His hands were so big.

“Personally, I think we should let them all starve,” Severin mused, “but I know you won’t be able to relax until everyone’s fed.” He flashed Richie a wink.

Fuck. A wink. His gorgeous, pale blue eyes.

He must know Richard was infatuated. Richard felt like a little kid with a crush on a grown-up, overwhelmed and vulnerable.

“Thanks. I am actually a little tired,” Richie admitted. “I was thinking about going to sleep soon...”

“Would you stay up for me?”

Richard could only stare.

“That wasn’t an order, just a request,” Severin added.

“I will,” Richard said. He would do literally anything Severin asked. “What do you need me to do?”

“I just wanted to talk to you.” Severin stepped away from the counter, all of the sandwiches complete. He’d cut them into perfectly symmetrical triangles, much neater than anything Richie could manage.

He regarded Richard a moment, then picked up a sandwich and said, “Eat.”

Richard leaned forward obediently and nibbled from Severin’s hand. It wasn’t until he saw Severin’s eyes flash that he realized his mistake.

“Oh my god,” he said. “You meant _take it,_ not...”

Severin smiled at him. “It’s fine.”

“I don’t know why I did that!” Richard’s skin burned from his cheeks down his chest. What kind of idiot ate out of someone else’s hand? “I must have drunk more than I realized.”

“It’s fine, really,” Severin said. “I’ll hand-feed you all the sandwiches you want.”

Richard laughed. There was something about Severin’s smile that made him feel like he genuinely wasn’t being judged. “It is _sort of_ your fault,” he ventured. “You did say ‘eat,’ and not ‘take the sandwich.’”

“I’ll be more precise when I’m bossing you around in the future.”

That sent a pleasant chill down Richard’s spine. “You, um... You said you wanted me to stay up. To talk to me?”

“Yeah,” Severin said. “I only came on this trip because Inge mentioned you were coming.”

“Huh?”

Severin shrugged. “I’ve worked at the theater company for a week, so I haven’t met everyone yet. I’m not normally comfortable with group activities like this, but...”

“But what?”

“Do you remember when we met?” Severin said.

Richard chuckled. “Yeah. That was only last Monday.”

“Exactly. And after we shook hands—” Richard fiercely remembered that first touch, Severin’s hand strong and warm and calloused—“you said, ‘I hope we get to talk more sometime.’ And ever since then, we’ve both been too busy to say anything more than ‘hi’ when we pass in the halls.”

This was not strictly true. Richard had found ample time to gaze at Severin from afar, spacing out mid-rehearsal while Severin repaired equipment in the back of the theater.

“So I thought this trip might be a nice chance to have a proper conversation with you,” Severin finished.

Richard knew Severin was just saying this because he was friendly, but Richard still appreciated the gesture. Even pretending to be interested in talking to Richard was very sweet. Richard flashed him a smile, suddenly too shy to form words. Severin probably wanted a graceful exit to the conversation, anyway, and silence would allow him to leave.

“This isn’t a very comfortable place to chat,” Severin said. Yep. He was about to leave Richard any moment now, and they wouldn’t talk again for the rest of the trip. “How about we take these sandwiches out and find somewhere cozy to talk?”

Oh.

“Okay.” Richard hurried up to collect the tray. But Severin got there first, balancing it on one hand.

He flashed Richard one of his white-toothed smiles and headed out of the room. Richard stood back enough to admire the broadness of his shoulders, and the way his jeans hugged his muscled ass...

He snapped out of it, following Severin out into the hall.

* * * *

“This place is pretty spooky, don’t you think? I keep getting scared that I’ll get lost in all these winding halls.”

Richard’s voice sounded small behind him. He turned around, noticing the old, paisley wallpaper and oil paintings on the walls as he did. The paintings were mostly pastoral scenes, but in the near darkness strange shadows made the horses and livestock look darkened and deformed.

“You can hold onto me if you’re scared of losing your way,” Severin teased.

Too cheesy? It was just so easy to tease Richard. On one hand, he was afraid of pushing too far and making Richard uncomfortable—Richard seemed like the conventional, modest type, and was definitely straight. But on the other hand, every time Severin said something stupid like that, Richard’s cheeks turned the most pleasing shade of pink.

Every night since Monday Severin had had to race home, eager to get a hand around his cock and imagine all the different ways he could make Richard blush. It was honestly too bad Richard was interested in Inge. Severin still hadn’t been able to figure out whether they were actually dating or not.

Someone jumped when they walked through the dining room doorway.

“Jesus, I thought you two were ghosts.” Severin didn’t know the person’s name, but they looked down at his tray and went, “Ooh, sandwiches.”

That brought a crowd rushing over to the tray, giving Severin an idea. He put the food down on a table and whispered to Richard, “Over here.”

In a darkened corner was a cream-colored sofa that could fit them both neatly. It was probably presumptuous of Severin to assume Richard would want to follow him—in fact, he was nearly certain Richard would rather be getting drunk and silly with his friends—but he was so greedy for some time with the man that he didn’t quite care. If this conversation was a dud, then perhaps Severin could begin moving on from his crush.

He was, after all, far too old for these sorts of feelings.

He was pleased when Richard sat beside him without hesitation, close enough to feel his body heat. From this angle Severin could see the top of his head, all soft, brown locks, and smell a fragrant shampoo. For a moment Severin felt like he could sit there for the rest of the night, not saying anything, just taking in the view.

“Sorry,” Richard said, breaking the silence. “I’m not a very good conversationalist.”

“Don’t apologize.”

Richard scrunched up his nose. He did that a lot, like a little bunny rabbit. “You’re being bossy again.”

He was surprised Richard had caught onto that. He’d noticed Richard complied with basically every direct or indirect order Severin had given him, which on one hand made Severin feel a little guilty, but on the other hand it...did something to him. Something secret and pleasurable.

“I’ll try not to be,” he offered.

“No!” Richard said. “I just...” He considered. “Everyone listens to you.”

“Hm?”

“Like, _everyone._ Even your own boss, Greg, the head of the crew? I noticed that this week. Your colleagues kept looking at you for instructions, even though you were only just hired.”

Had Richard been watching him at work?

“Why is that?” Richard finished.

“Why is what?”

“Why does everyone listen to you?”

Severin considered. “You seem to listen to me.”

Richard nodded, unbothered by this fact.

“Why do you?” Severin asked.

“You seem like a good leader.”

Severin couldn’t help it—he barked out a laugh.

“I’m serious!” Richard said, ears turning so pink it was obvious even in the low light. “You’re always so calm and serious, and while everyone else is just barely grasping what’s going on, you already have a plan sorted out.”

This was an enormously flattering portrayal of Severin, certainly more generous than how he viewed himself. He would say he was a control freak, someone who overstepped when he was supposed to be surrendering the reins.

“Were you ever a boss of your own stage crew?” Richard asked.

“No,” Severin said. “I was a sergeant major.”

Richard blinked. “Of a stage crew?”

“In Kabul. I was in the army for fifteen years.”

Understanding slowly dawned on Richard. “I... Oh, and that’s why... Your posture and your...” His eyes slid down to Severin’s muscled arms.

So he’d noticed Severin’s body. Interesting. Maybe not as hetero as Severin had assumed.

“I feel stupid,” Richard confessed.

He put himself down a lot. Severin wondered why. He was young, astonishingly good-looking, sexy in the way that lit up a room—or a stage, as a matter of fact. He was a successful actor starring in a prestigious upcoming project. Why was his confidence so low?

“There was no way for you to know,” Severin said, as soothingly as he could.

“You _look_ like a soldier,” Richard said. “I mean, a—a sergeant major.”

Severin smiled. “Hopefully I’ll get better at blending in with civilians soon enough.”

“When were you discharged?”

“Six months ago,” Severin said.

“And why did you...” Richard looked around the room, at the twenty-odd people dancing and laughing and gobbling down drinks, stumbling over their own heels. “Why did you join all this mess? It must seem like a major demotion to you.”

How to explain?

“When I first got back, I was hired to work in a supervisory position for a private security firm that worked for clients like Elon Musk or whoever,” Severin said. _“That_ felt like a demotion—sitting in a generic office every day, which was apparently supposed to be impressive just because I got my own little room to myself. Taking phone calls, heading endless meetings, and having hardly any reason to get up off my ass. After six weeks I was contemplating suicide.”

He cut himself off—he’d spoken too much and too honestly. But Richard was only looking up at him with his wide, gorgeous brown eyes, no judgment on his face.

“I wanted something creative. And...” This was the part he was most ashamed to admit. It seemed weak. He mumbled, “Nonviolent.”

“Pardon?”

He cleared his throat. “Nonviolent. I wanted a job where violence seemed like an impossibility.”

Richard laughed. “Welcome to Addison’s Theater. We don’t seem boring to you?”

Richard was the reason Severin came to work in the morning. Not that Severin was about to say that, like some kind of creep.

Still, he couldn’t suppress the sudden wave of affection that came over him. He realized Richard was one of the first people outside of that damned security firm who knew he was ex-military. He hadn’t intended to be secretive about it, but it was surprisingly hard for him to bring up.

“Nothing about you is boring to me,” he said. He froze; from Richard’s slight gape, he realized his tone was more revealing than he’d attended.

But fuck it. Why not just get this over with?

“I know you’re probably straight,” Severin said, “but you really fucking do it for me, Richard.”

Fuck. That wasn’t what he’d intended to say. What _had_ he intended to say? He hadn’t planned anything, fuck—

“You do, too.”

Richard’s words were so soft, just a whisper; Severin could have easily misheard. Richard curled into himself like a turtle retreating into his shell.

“What was that?” Severin said urgently.

“You...you do, too. Do that. For me,” Richard said.

Severin stared, afraid of scaring him off.

Richard stared back, and this was far, far too much prolonged eye contact for two acquaintances. Severin watched in awe as Richard visibly mustered his courage.

“I think you’re handsome, is what I mean,” he said. And then he squeaked—actually _squeaked,_ this ridiculous fucking man—and pulled his knees up to his chin. He was wearing cute woolly socks.

“Can I kiss you?” Severin asked, with more earnestness than he’d expressed in years.

Richard parted his lips, eyes wide.

“O—”

“YO, YOU TWO.” Todd was suddenly squatting right in front of them both, inches from Severin’s face. “We’re starting a fucking game. Are you in?”

Richard regarded him sullenly. “I’m tired. I was about to go to bed.”

“Get out of here then, you’re useless,” Todd said dismissively. He turned to Severin. “You in?”

Whatever Richard’s response would have been, there was no trace of it on his face now.

“Sure,” Severin said tiredly. He watched helplessly as Richard slipped out of the room.


	2. Fellow Insomniac

He came into the kitchen because he’d thought he’d heard a ghost. And because ghosts were preferable to his dreams, or even to the stale, restless insomnia that had plagued him since his discharge. Long nights spent flat on his back in overheated rooms, wide awake with racing thoughts until he dipped into violent nightmares that felt as real as day, only to jerk back awake moments later, rinse and repeat.

So when he heard a ghost tinkering with some teapots, he pulled on his jeans and T-shirt (not having had the forethought to pack pajamas before the trip) and stalked down the long hall full of oil paintings and unused candelabras from an era long past.

And there he was: Richard standing barefoot on the tiled floor, looking touchingly small and pale in his matching PJs, staring up at a wall of cabinets, every single cabinet door open.

“A fellow insomniac, I see,” Severin said, and he was pleased to know Richard enough by now to predict Richard’s little startled jump a second before it happened.

Richard put his hand on his own heart and wheeled around. He was so _modest_ in his PJs, all monogrammed breast pockets and navy silk, the collar tightened right at the base of his throat. Not a spare inch of skin showing. Why was that erotic to Severin?

Severin was a horrid monster. A horrid, sleepy, turned on monster.

“You can’t sleep?” Richard asked, somewhat redundantly.

“Not good at sleeping.” He was lucky if he got three accumulative hours a night. “What’s keeping you awake?”

“I _could_ sleep,” Richard said, frowning, “but I thought I should take stock before the sun comes up.”

“Stock?”

Richard gestured to the open cabinet doors, all the glass jars full of tomatoes, dried beans, and canned fruits preserved straight from the estate’s garden. “I’ll have twenty people to feed first thing in the morning. I need to be prepared. It’s more stressful if I have to think of recipes on the fly. I...I like to plan,” he said quietly, in the voice of someone long-burdened by their own anxious overthinking.

Severin didn’t have anxiety. Just hauntings. But apparently the symptoms were similar.

“Feeding twenty people would be rather stressful,” Severin agreed, “but don’t you think we can all feed ourselves? We’re all adults.”

Richard shook his head. “That’s not how it works.”

“It can be,” Severin said. “We’ll all wake up when we please, stroll out into the kitchen for some toast if we want it—eggs if we’re feeling especially hungry. It’ll be simple.”

“And some people will get up before others, and take all the good bread,” Richard said, sighing, “and no one will wash up after themselves, and they’ll all be bumping into each other and screaming at each other to wash the dirty dishes, and then there will be _resentments.”_

He said the word like it had a long history. None of his examples sounded remotely rhetorical.

“Ah,” Severin said. “I see.”

He’d been imagining Richard as a self-appointed maid, and had been unable to figure out why Richard would constantly cook and clean up after everyone if not just for the sake of sheer subservience, but now it clicked: Richard was the peacekeeper. Without Richard, the theater group would fight, maybe even dissolve into complete dysfunction.

“That is a _very_ unfair position to put you in,” Severin pointed out.

Richard shrugged. “It’s not their fault.” As if they were children.

He turned tiredly back to the cabinets. “I’d rather do this than have them...” He trailed off, looking pained. “I _hate_ yelling.”

“They won’t yell,” Severin said. “There’s not going to be any fighting, and you’re not going to stay up worrying about how to take care of everyone, either.”

He went ahead and started closing the cabinet doors. “Come on. It’s almost three in the morning.” On the counter was a little notebook with a list. _Pancake mix—4 boxes; bananas—6 bunches; canned peaches—_

“No more taking stock,” he said, closing the notebook.

Richard shook his head. “I have to—”

“You have to relax,” Severin said gently. “That’s your only task.”

Richard smiled sheepishly, looking a little shy and a little sad and a lot tired. His hair all softly ruffled. Severin’s heart panged.

“I don’t know how to relax,” Richard admitted.

“Then let me show you.” A thought popped into his head. It pained him that he didn’t know what Richard’s reaction would have been to him asking for a kiss earlier; it was hard to know what Richard wanted. “If you let me, I can help you.”

“How?”

“It’s a trick I learned in the military,” Severin said. “After long nights of drills, or patrols where we were trapped wearing hundreds of pounds of equipment for hours and hours, we’d all be stiff as anything. But a quick massage can make your muscles like butter again.”

Richard blinked up at him. “Massage?”

“Can I?” Severin said. “Just a shoulder rub.”

Silently, Richard nodded, his eyes wide. Severin approached him like he might an easily startled rabbit.

He avoided Richard’s neck, for the simple reason that it was where he wanted to touch the most, forbidden fruit. Instead he touched Richard only through his pajamas, the silk horribly unsatisfying when Richard’s bare skin was _right there,_ but he controlled himself.

Richard sighed, a deep, meditative exhalation. Always a good sign.

“Let’s go to the den?” Severin suggested. “It might be more comfortable to sit on the couch.”

* * * *

Richard was a little scared Severin might notice Richard’s suitcase in the den and ask why his luggage was there, but he walked right by it obliviously to turn on a lamp. He didn’t even seem to notice the threadbare afghan Richard had been using as a blanket, only tossing it aside as he sat on the couch, commenting, “It’s so much chillier in here than it is upstairs.”

“Yeah,” said Richard, too sleepy for substantial conversation. His skin still felt warm, almost electric, with the memory of Severin’s touch in the kitchen.

They arranged themselves on the couch, Severin beside him, leaning back while Richard leaned forward. It would be so much better to just sit between Severin’s thighs, but Richard knew that would cross a line. This meant nothing to Severin, after all. This was just something he used to do with his army buddies.

But _god,_ could the man give a massage. He approached it the way he approached everything: Directly, without wavering, his grip so firm and certain. His hands rubbed up and down Richard’s back, thumbs kneeding into tight muscles, and Richard had no choice but to let go, loosen up...

“Richard?” Severin whispered. “Are you asleep?”

“Mmm?”

Severin chuckled, and the burst of warm air let Richard know how close Severin was to his face. His eyes flickered open.

“What time is it?” he mumbled.

“Just after three,” Severin said. “I massaged you for twenty minutes. Do you feel better?”

“I missed it,” Richard blurted, waking up a bit. It seemed wildly unfair. How had he slept through most of Severin touching him?

“Shhh,” Severin said. “You didn’t miss anything. Let’s go to bed now, all right?”

“All right,” said Richard sadly. “Good night.”

Severin stood. “What floor’s your bedroom on?”

Richard froze. His secret.

“I, uh... Umm...”

Severin cocked his head. Richard was not very good at keeping secrets.

“Where’s your room?” Severin asked again.

“There are, uh, twenty bedrooms,” Richard said. “So when Inge invited you at the last minute, that made twenty-one guests...” He hurried to add, “But she didn’t know! And, I mean, you didn’t know either. It’s no one’s fault, and it doesn’t really matter, so—”

“Where are you sleeping?” Severin said more sternly.

“Here,” Richard said. “The couch is... It’s nice.”

Severin looked unimpressed. “I was just sitting on it. It sinks like it’s died. A corpse couch.”

Richard smiled.

“And it’s _cold_ in here,” Severin said. “Come on. Get up.”

“But—”

“Up,” Severin said, and Richard couldn’t quite disobey that tone of voice. He followed Severin out into the hall, down a long passage to the steps. On the third floor was Severin’s room, a little separated from everyone else’s, as if to mark that he was the newest, not-quite-accepted member of the theater group.

Severin opened the door and gestured for Richard to go inside.

His first impression was that it was so _warm,_ the radiators apparently more effective on the third floor. A lamp was on, revealing a massive bed of white pillows and a white, lace-covered duvet, the room full of doilies, floral-patterned vases, and glass kittens.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Richard said tiredly.

Severin snorted. “It’s your place now. Sleep tight, Richie.”

He stepped toward the doorway.

“Wait! Where are you going?”

Severin looked over his shoulder. “I don’t mind couches.”

“You just said that couch is _dead.”_

“Yes, well, not that particular couch,” Severin said. “But this is a mansion. There are definitely other couches downstairs.”

“But it’s cold...” Richard started.

Severin smiled. “I don’t mind, Richard. Really. I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I knew you were downstairs all alone.”

 _“I_ won’t be able to sleep if I know that _you’re_ downstairs all alone,” Richard objected. He felt horribly guilty, the kind of feeling that could easily cost him more than one night of sleep. “I’ll be up the whole night if you’re stuck sleeping on a couch.”

“But I was in the military,” Severin said. “I’m used to sleeping on wood planks, on sleeping bags in the sand, in the seat of a truck, or just...standing up. I can sleep anywhere, Richard.”

Richard shook his head. “Not anymore. You’re a civilian now, Severin. You get a bed. Always.”

“But you—”

This could go on all night. Richard raised his finger, and was pleasantly validated when Severin stopped speaking. People tended to just speak over him.

“It’s a king size bed,” he said. “It could fit both of us.”

Severin paused. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“I don’t mind if you don’t mind.”

For a moment they just stared at each other, and the eye contact felt like a conversation of its own, both of them acknowledging that this would never stop until one of them relented. They exchanged grins.

“All right, then,” Severin said. “Thank you very much for taking me in.”

He closed the door, and a pleasant thrill shook through Richard. He regarded the bed, too self-conscious, suddenly, to look at Severin.

“Can I sleep on the wall side?” He’d feel so cozy and safe between a wall on one side and Severin on the other.

“Be my guest,” Severin said.

Richard climbed into bed. He made quick work of wiggling beneath the blankets, discovering a down comforter that was blessedly soft. Severin turned off the bedside lamp and started to get into bed.

“What are you doing?” Richard blurted.

Severin paused. “Should I sleep on the floor?”

He said it so calmly, like Richard might actually want that.

“No!” Richard said. “I... You’re in your jeans, Severin.”

“Ah. Yes. I didn’t think to pack pajamas,” he said. “I don’t own any, in fact.”

“Then what do you sleep in?” asked Richard, astonished, because buying a new set of PJs was one of his favorite things in life.

Severin didn’t respond.

“Oh,” Richard said, a hot blush flushing his cheeks. Had Severin...had Severin been naked in these sheets?

“You can’t sleep in jeans,” he added.

“I don’t mind at all,” Severin said. “In the military I often—”

“I won’t let you.”

The moonlight streaming through the windows wasn’t enough to illuminate Severin’s expression, and Richard wondered if he was offended. But then they burst out into chuckles at the same time. Same wave length, even in the dark. Phew.

“As long as it doesn’t make you uncomfortable,” Severin said, but he was already reaching for the zipper of his jeans.

Richard didn’t even think about looking away. Severin probably couldn’t even tell he was staring.

And then Severin was in his briefs and a T-shirt, and Richard said, “Your shirt’s too tight for sleepwear,” wondering how far he could push this.

Severin made quick work of pulling it off and tossing it beside the jeans.

And that was how Richard got Severin in bed half-naked. None of it had been intentional (except maybe for the shirt bit), but it suddenly felt as if he had been very devious and clever.

They were still far apart. Richard wished the bed were smaller.

“I feel I’m not being entirely gentlemanly,” Severin said, turning over to face Richard.

Richard giggled. “You sound like some kind of Victorian.”

“I don’t want you to think I devised this.”

Richard was grinning in the dark. He felt, suddenly, that he could bring up something he couldn’t possibly say aloud while the lights were on.

“You _did_ mention wanting to...do something, before,” Richard finished lamely, a coward at the last moment.

Severin didn’t respond. Richard’s heart slowly sank.

“Or...did you change your mind?” he asked, as casually as he could.

“Not remotely,” Severin said. “I thought I shouldn’t bring it up again, since I never got a response.”

“Oh.” The room was so quiet. They were both so still. He lay there, filled with want, unable to express it.

“Is that a ‘no’?” Severin whispered.

A nervous giggle escaped his lips. “I, uh... I can’t remember the question.” Teasing made him less nervous.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Severin teased back, shifting closer and propping himself on his elbows, so that he was looking down at Richard, two silhouettes. “Should I remind you?”

“Yes, please.”

Severin leaned down, so slowly in the dark, his hand resting near Richard’s head. He sank lower until his lips were nearly brushing Richard’s. Richard lay so very, very still. Severin smelled like the sheets because the sheets smelled like Severin.

“May I?” Severin murmured.

Richard couldn’t wait. He snapped forward, his lips meeting Severin’s, his hands grasping Severin’s head and pulling him down. Severin swung a leg over Richard so that he was perfectly on top of him, all while never interrupting the kiss, and then there was only Severin, Severin, _Severin,_ so much heat and muscle and bare skin, and his tongue, grazing Richard’s lips, Richard doing all he could not to simply gulp him up.

Severin slowed down, began to move away, peppering a few sweet, light kisses on his lips. And then just like that—gone. To the other side of the bed. It’d only lasted a few seconds.

“Good night, Richard,” he said softly, and he left Richard alone there in the dark, almost cruelly.

Richard was aching. But he didn’t want to seem greedy—or pushy, or vulgar, or _needy,_ the worst of words. Still: He was overwhelmed with the yearning for more. It hadn’t satisfied his hunger at all, only broken something inside him, turned a crush into something much worse. Much more serious.

He’d thought he’d been infatuated before, but that was nothing. Only a few hours ago he hadn’t understood anything about his own feelings for Severin Moran. The kiss had broken a dam inside him and now he was drowning, helpless, the meter-wide gap between them on the bed a wide, uncrossable chasm.

* * * *

Severin lay alone in the dark. Richard didn’t say a word after the kiss. Not one peep. He had pulled Severin so close to him, and Severin replayed that moment in his mind, the glorious pleasure of feeling truly wanted by Richard Brook.

But it faded so quickly. He’d gotten on top of Richard, and only then had he really registered how much larger he was than Richard, and suddenly Richard seemed so delicate, so easily breakable. So hurtable. And it was dark, so he couldn’t see Richard’s expression, and Richard hadn’t actually said _yes,_ so what if this was all a mistake—

He’d stopped the kiss. Richard had given no objection to starting, no objection to stopping. What did that _mean?_ Was Richard horrified? Or...indifferent?

Severin felt stupid. He had he wanted Richard to say? _Gee, Severin, you kiss pretty good for an old fucking man._

He was shirtless. If Richard had stroked his chest, he would have felt the scars, the mangled skin. And Severin was filled with a dozen different pains that never quite went away: the broken ankle that had never fully healed, his insurance refusing to cover the elective surgery that would correct the dull, aching pain; the scar tissue that tightened and burned when it rained; the place in his abdomen where he’d taken a knife, now permanently tender. He couldn’t even go to sleep without popping in three acetaminophen.

What had he expected? That Richard would actually... _want_ him?

He snorted. Then paused, waiting, to see if he’d disturbed Richard. But Richard’s breathing was deep and untroubled; he wasn’t awake. So it was just Severin, in the dark, wishing desperately that he mattered to the man sleeping next to him. 


	3. Dumb Butts

Richard woke up in the morning to an empty bed. He hadn’t realized his unconscious mind had been looking forward to waking up beside Severin until the precise moment when he saw the empty pillow on the other side of the bed and sighed. Severin had apparently raced out as soon as he’d awoken.

He got up and dressed. The room was cold; the radiators must have turned off automatically when the sun rose. Light was gushing into the rooms; it seemed well into morning now, maybe around ten. Everyone was probably antsy, waiting for him to rush to the kitchen and make breakfast. He expected more than a couple of glares once he emerged.

When he padded downstairs to the kitchen, however, no one was around except for Inge.

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty,” she sang.

The plot twist of the century: Inge was flipping _eggs_ with a _spatula_ at the _stove._

“You’re making breakfast?” Richard gaped.

“Everyone’s been fed but you,” Inge said. “A certain Severin Moran got up nice and early and gave us quite an earful about not over-burdening our beloved little Richie.” She winked. “He made a sheet with dates and meal times and we all had to sign up for kitchen duties. I signed up for breakfast this morning.” She pointed to a schedule stuck with a magnet on the fridge; nearly everyone had scrolled their name on it once or twice. “He somehow bossed us all around while being perfectly charming about it.”

“Wow.” Richie felt suddenly lighter, no longer bound to a week of cooking for twenty-one people a day, three times a day.

Inge swept over to him and handed him a plate. It was loaded with eggs, toast, and sliced kiwis and strawberries.

“How’d I do?” she asked.

“It looks beautiful.” He settled down at the little café table in the kitchen corner. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Just keep me company while I clean up.” She started wiping the kitchen counter while Richard popped some fruit into his mouth.

“So tell me,” she said, “when exactly did you have time to confess how we overwork you to Severin?”

Richard paused. He couldn’t lie to her, because he was a terrible liar, but he also knew she was going to misinterpret the truth.

“Severin and I shared a room last night,” he said.

She stopped cleaning and whirled around. “You _slept together?”_

“It’s not like that.” His chest felt too tight. “We’re not... He’s not... He doesn’t like me.”

Inge rolled her eyes. “That’s what you always say, even when guys are crazy about you. I’m telling you, Rich—you didn’t notice the way Severin looked at you last week when you first met, but the moment he shook your hand, he was all like—” She widened her eyes and dropped her jaw. “—Love at first sight, bam. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“He’s not interested.”

Richard’s tone got her attention. She squatted and looked him in the eyes, lips straight. “What makes you say that?”

“We, umm...” He swallowed, a lump forming in his throat. He managed to explain how Severin had found him in the kitchen last night and how they’d ended up sharing a bed. “And I thought... I thought he was interested.” His voice cracked. He took a deep breath and started again. “He kissed me.”

“Isn’t that a _good_ thing?”

Richard shook his head. “There was... It was just...nothing.”

“You didn’t feel a spark?”

“No! I did. But he didn’t.” He squeezed his eyes shut, willing tears not to come. “He kissed me for about two seconds, and then it was over, and he fell asleep without saying anything. Like he took me for a test drive and decided I was b-broken.” He whispered this last word.

“Oh, Richie, I’m sorry,” Inge said, also whispering. She rubbed his arm. “I feel like this is all my fault. I’m the one who invited him here.”

“You were t-trying to help.”

“Yeah, but I should have minded my own business. I just really thought he was into you, or I wouldn’t have done it...”

“It’s fine,” Richard sniffed, rubbing his eyes dry. “Really. I’m over it.”

And yet in reality he had only just realized how much it hurt, to wake up on the other side of a disinterested kiss from Severin Moran.

“You _will_ be over it,” Inge said encouragingly, “as soon as you realize any guy who isn’t into you is an absolute moron. Yes—Severin _Moron.”_

Richard frowned. “Don’t say that.”

“All right. Just promise me one thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t go back to Todd because of this.”

“Why would I go back to him?” Richard asked, aghast. He only needed to be cheated on about thirty times to get the picture, thank you very much. Fool Richie once, shame on you. Fool Richie like a couple dozen times and he almost definitely was not going back to Todd. It was practically certain.

“That’s what you always do when you’re lonely and sad,” said Inge, “and then he’s horrible to you and you’re twice as hurt as you were before.”

“I won’t go back,” Richard said more forcefully.

“Good to hear it,” Inge said. “Now finish your breakfast.”

* * * *

On the lawn outside they’d turned on the sprinklers despite the frosty spring air, and most of the theater group was playing in the water like children, all barefoot and drenched, everyone beaming like they were part of a commercial advertising the abundant happiness of youth and good looks.

Severin did not join them, because his leg was stiff. He couldn’t remember how to use his body for anything but violence and sex. He’d watched from a lawn chair for a while. A cheery pop song he didn’t know was playing, and people were tossing around a beach ball, chasing each other, dancing.

Richard was attempting a pirouette and failing beautifully. As he spun, he wobbled and slipped and fell on his knees, splashing himself with mud. Severin tried hard not to narrow in on Richard—tried hard to watch anyone or anything, in fact, that was not Richard. But his gaze was drawn back to him again and again. It was like everything else in the world was just a little out of focus, and there was Richard in the center of it all, crystal clear and blazing like the fucking sun.

He needed to not like Richard Brook. Richard did not like _him._ Was Richard glancing at Severin right now, like Severin was the only thing worth looking at? No. Was Richard asking him to dance? Nope. Was Severin sitting on a lawn chair and staring like a creep? Very much so.

So he dragged himself away. He got up and went into the greenhouse nearby, where the owner had hung tin buckets for strawberry picking. Amidst the rows of green the strawberries sat waiting, little rubies.

Apparently this was more his pace than the lawn party.

God, Severin felt ancient. Last week, during his first few days at work, he’d planned to actually ask Richard out to dinner. But he’d quickly learned that Richard spent nearly every night at a club, and Severin couldn’t imagine being around that many bodies and that much noise just yet. They were obviously and fundamentally incompatible.

He squatted before a strawberry plant and picked one off, biting the fruit from the stem. Sweet juice burst into his mouth.

“You look like a serial killer all covered in blood splatters.”

Severin looked up. It was Todd, who had seemed good-looking when they first met. But now he seemed just a tad too colorless from head to foot, his blond hair white, his blue eyes overly icy. There was something too sharp about him, all angles and snide, upright nose.

“Not the first time I’ve heard that,” Severin said. Todd had not skipped the sprinklers and pop music, and he was dripping water all over the greenhouse floor.

“Not a fan of dancing?” Todd asked. He stood above Severin while Severin was squatting.

Severin gestured to his little tin bucket. “You can toss strawberries in here if you want.”

Todd glanced at the plants like they were something unpleasant. “I don’t like to get my hands dirty.”

There was no dirt in the greenhouse, but Severin held his tongue. It’d been pretty apparent since his first day of work that, for whatever reason, Todd didn’t like him.

“Is there something you wanted?” Severin asked.

“I think it’s clear I don’t like you.”

Damn. He respected people who said what they meant, just on principle.

“I figured as much,” he acknowledged.

“I know you have your sights on Richard.”

Severin went back to picking strawberries. “Is that any of your business?”

“It is,” Todd said, “as Richard’s oldest and closest friend. I know Richard better than anyone, and I know you’re exactly the kind of guy he’d find it hard to say no to.”

Severin laughed gruffly. “You think he finds old military types irresistible?”

“Unlikely,” Todd drawled, looking bored. “Richard doesn’t like big guys, actually.”

Figured. Fuck. Why couldn’t Severin look like Todd, all slenderness and bones?

“I meant that he doesn’t know how to say no easily. He gets forced into things a lot,” Todd said. “I wouldn’t want to see him uncomfortable during this trip.”

Severin was about to object, to say he had no notion whatsoever of forcing anything on anyone, but then he remembered last night’s kiss, and how Richard hadn’t actually said yes, and he stayed silent.

“Richard’s surprisingly forward when he wants to be,” Todd said. “If he wants you, he’ll come to you. But if you make some kind of request, he’s going to feel like he has to go along with it.”

Fuck. Severin closed his eyes and exhaled before he could mask his reaction.

“I hit the mark,” Todd said, reading him.

“Yeah,” Severin said reluctantly. “I probably came on too strong last night.”

“In the dining room? I saw you two on the sofa,” Todd said. “That’s why I came over and interrupted. He looked like he was searching for a way to get out of your conversation and didn’t know how.”

Jesus. Had the entire group noticed? Was Severin marked as some kind of predator? And how could Severin have been so oblivious, when even people across the room could tell Richard was uncomfortable?

“Last night, after everyone was asleep,” Severin said, “I... I invited Richard into my room. Because he was sleeping on an old couch. I thought I was being kind.”

“You shared a room?”

“A bed,” Severin clarified, finally standing up. He didn’t like Todd, and Todd didn’t like him, but it was clear from the familiar way Todd spoke of Richard that they’d been friends for a long time. Todd was standing up to Severin in the interest of protecting Richard, and Severin appreciated that. Richard deserved a protector.

“That’s exactly the sort of thing I was afraid of,” Todd said. “Richard must have felt obliged to accept your invitation. But he’s not really the sort to just share beds with people he hardly knows.”

_He must have felt obliged to go along with your kiss._

“I really wasn’t trying to push anything,” Severin said.

“I can imagine.” Todd put up his hands in a kind of surrender. “I’m not implying anything. Most guys can’t pick up on when Richard is disinterested because he’d feel rude if he were open with his feelings.”

“Right.” God. Having all of his worst fears confirmed fucking hurt. “I’ll, um... I don’t want Richard sleeping on a couch. I’ll just let him have the bedroom tonight.”

“Richard wouldn’t let you go without a room,” Todd said. “You’re like our guest. That wouldn’t be hospitable.”

It was true. Richard hadn’t wanted to do precisely that last night. Todd really did know him well.

“Why don’t I share a bed with Richard tonight, and you can sleep in my room?” Todd suggested. “Richard and I have shared a room loads of times.”

It was the way he said it. The slight smirk. A certain glint in his eyes that taunted, _I have everything you want._

He’d slept with Richard. Of fucking course.

But he was also clearly looking out for Richard, concerned that an old soldier had managed to pressure Richard into sharing a bed. This sucked, but wasn’t it better than making Richard uncomfortable for a second night in a row?

“That sounds great.” Severin sighed, suddenly exhausted. “I’ll, um...” He looked outside the greenhouse. Everyone had gone in finally, the sprinklers off. “I’ll go get my bags out of the room. Show me where you stayed last night?”

“Will do,” Todd said, almost nicely, and flashed Severin a bone-white smile before they trod out of the greenhouse together.


	4. The Voice in the Hall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for Richard's ex-boyfriend being an asshat. Past emotional abuse mentioned.

When Richard returned to their bedroom, he was surprised to hear Severin in the shower. He hadn’t seen much of Severin all day, despite trying to find him several times, getting lost in various nooks and crannies of the seemingly endless mansion. He’d wondered if Severin was avoiding him, but as long as they were sharing a room, surely Richard could find a chance to clear things up between them. All Richard wanted—if he couldn’t have anything else—was Severin’s friendship.

The bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of steam and a familiar blond face. Richard’s heart sunk.

“Todd...”

Todd looked arrogant from every angle, his nose naturally upturned in a way that suggested ceaseless snootiness.

“You could sound more pleased to see me.” He dried off his hair and tossed his towel onto the floor, in boxers and a T-shirt.

“I am...” Richard cleared his throat. “Where’s Severin?”

“He asked me if I’d switch rooms with him.”

“Oh,” Richard peeped. He wanted to ask why. He didn’t want to know why.

“Dear lord, is that what you wear to sleep?” Todd eyed him, and he suddenly felt exposed lying on the bed.

“These are my PJs...” He tugged at his shirt collar self-consciously.

“You look like a buttoned-up nun,” Todd scoffed.

Todd was always saying things that implied Richard was a woman. It was only ever a suggestion, had a certain amount of plausible deniability, so Richard felt incapable of addressing it. Todd had all of Richard’s secrets stashed like knives on his person, and Richard was forever dreading the day he’d start flinging them about. He knew about Richard’s penchant for lingerie, and of his submissive tendencies, and... The more Todd had learned about Richard, over the course of their relationship, the crueler he’d become, and the more often he’d cheated.

Somehow, they were still friends. Todd had taught Richard valuable lessons—about what he was worth, and what he wasn’t. About what he could reveal to a partner, and what he couldn’t. Just because they’d been hard lessons to learn didn’t mean Richard should hold them against Todd.

“I don’t wear all this when I’m sleeping,” Richard lied, unbuttoning his shirt. He quickly pulled up his blanket, though, the cold air hitting his skin hard.

Todd rolled his eyes and got into bed. Richard shivered, edging toward the wall of the bed, widening the space between them.

“Jesus, Richard, are you going to make this into a whole thing?” Todd said.

“I’m not making this into a whole thing.”

“This isn’t a ‘whole thing’?” Todd gestured aggressively toward the empty space between them.

“I just like being near the wall,” Richard lied.

“So you don’t care if I come closer?”

“No.” Why was it so hard to tell the truth?

“I’m turning out the lights.” The room went dark, and Todd sighed and slid close enough for Richard to feel Todd’s breath on his neck. It smelled like the pork loins someone had cooked up earlier. Richard was a vegetarian.

Todd reached out and started petting Richard’s hair, like Richard was a dog. It was a thing he did sometimes. Richard neither liked nor minded it. He held very still.

“You’re so stiff,” Todd whispered.

“Sorry.”

“Would you relax if I kissed you?” His porky breath was too close to Richard’s ear.

“No...”

“That’s fine,” Todd said coldly. Todd had always liked to tell Richard, very testily, that it was okay to say no. “Is this what you did to Severin?”

“Huh?”

“Just wondering what you did last night that made him so...”

“So what?” Richie asked, heart thumping. “Did he say something to you?”

“Yeah,” Todd said. “Don’t worry about it.” He rolled over like he meant to go to sleep.

“What did Severin say?” Richard asked.

“I honestly don’t want to tell you,” Todd said. “He's a proper asshole, Richie.”

“He is...?” Richie blinked. He’d known Severin hadn’t enjoyed their kiss. But what had he done that could have turned Severin off so much? Was it his ugly pajamas? He felt incredibly unsexy. “Did he tell you why he—why he didn’t want to share a room with me?”

“You honestly don’t want to know, Richie,” Todd said. “It wasn’t nice. Just forget about it.”

“I can’t,” Richard whispered, unable to conceal the hurt in his voice.

Todd sighed and turned back around. He reached out a finger and placed it on Richard’s cheek.

“I forgot you’re such a worry wart,” he said, poking Richard’s face. Richard twitched, trying to swat Todd’s hand away, but Todd ignored him and poked him again. “What do you want from Severin that he won’t give to you? Because I am completely certain you could get it from me without the headache.”

“I don’t want to kiss _you,”_ Richard sulked, knowing he was being petty.

“Sure you do.” His finger trailed down Richard’s neck, making him shiver involuntarily.

“Todd, stop,” Richard whispered.

“Mhm.” But there were two hands on him now, fingers trailing everywhere, and when Richard tried to wriggle away Todd just started tickling him.

Richard laughed unwillingly, a reflex that snatched the air from his lungs.

“Stop it!” he tried again.

Todd was laughing, too, in a less helpless way. He got to his knees so that he could pin Richard down, and Richard _hated_ that, hated how Todd always did everything too fast, too roughly, always tickled him so that it sounded like his objections weren’t sincere.

“Don’t be childish,” Todd breathed, pressing him against the bed. “You know I only switched with Severin because I wanted to cheer you up, right? You looked so sad all day.”

The thing was: Todd was, in a very different way from Severin, good-looking. Severin was good-looking in the way that stole your breath every time you so much as thought about him. Todd was good-looking in a way that was not plainly repulsive. As in: Would it really be so bad to be kissed by your ex if no one else wanted you? If you were in love with someone but your cheating ex was right here, tickling you for kicks, would it really be so terrible to go along with it? Could it maybe make Richard feel better to be wanted by someone, even if it was the wrong person? To be wanted in some way, even if it was in the wrong way?

_I want to know I’m not nothing._

So he sat up and kissed Todd, and Todd laughed at him like he knew Richard would do that, but like he hadn’t actually cared either way. He didn’t even bother kissing Richard back, too good for that, and the longer their lips touched, the more Richard felt like nothing, nothing, nothing.

_“Richard.”_

“Severin?” Richard gasped, pulling away.

_“Richard.”_

Richard shoved Todd out of the way.

“What are you doing?” Todd shouted.

“That was Severin,” he said wildly. “He sounded—”

Desperate, tender, lonely, sad? None of those words made any contextual sense, so Richard reached for something that did. “I think he’s hurt,” he said.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Todd said, but Richard was already stumbling out of bed. Todd switched on the lamp. “Would you slow down? What did you hear?”

_“Richard, god, I...”_

“Severin!” Richard called, and he bolted out into the dark hall. No one was near, even though Severin must have _just_ been there.

Did he want Richard to follow him? Maybe Severin was in one of the other bedrooms, alone and hurt, his voice calling out in the dark...

Richard swept down the hall without further hesitation, calling out Severin’s name at intervals. He _felt_ Severin, which was not a sensible thought but was nevertheless true. Severin was _here,_ close to him, in a way he hadn’t been a mere minute ago.

He passed each closed door, but no one shouted out for him. He turned a corner, suddenly afraid to be so alone in the dark, empty mansion, everyone else asleep, Todd not bothering to follow—

“Oomph!” He ran smack into a hard wall.

No, not a wall. A man, broad and warm and not at all wearing a shirt.

“Richie?”

At the sound of Severin’s voice, every ounce of fear flooded out of Richard’s body, and his knees gave out. Severin caught him, his face faintly visible, just the merest hint of creased brows.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Are you okay?”

“Are _you_ okay?” Richie asked.

“Of course,” Severin said. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“I heard you...” He felt suddenly foolish.

“Come into my room? It’s too dark out here.”

Richard held Severin’s hand, feeling like a child, as Severin pushed open a door. Light and warmth flooded out, and Richard followed Severin inside gratefully.

Good lord. He was very, _very_ much not wearing a shirt. For a moment Richard just gaped helplessly, infatuated with the simple line of broad shoulders dipping to slim waist, the shadows of Severin’s muscled arms.

Severin cleared his throat, pressing a hand flat against his abdomen like he had something to hide. Richard averted his eyes.

“I was sleeping just a minute ago,” Severin said. “So whoever you heard, it couldn’t have been me.”

“It was definitely you,” Richard objected. Then said, more reasonably, “Or maybe it wasn’t.”

It had been, though. He knew Severin’s voice like he knew no one else’s. If he’d been sleeping, then Richard must have hallucinated it. But the sound had still led him to Severin’s room...

Severin smiled at him gently. He had such gentle eyes. Richard felt foolish, suddenly, for imagining that Severin would completely reject him after one failed kiss, because those were not the eyes of a man who would ever hurt Richard’s feelings.

Hadn’t he said something terrible about Richard to Todd, though? And Richard was a poor judge of character, proving that by having ever dated Todd in the first place, so...

He looked away. “I should go back to bed.”

“Okay,” Severin said, voice as gentle as his eyes.

The darkness past the doorway waited for Richie, deep and black like an abyss. No—it was just a hall. It was just a thing he would walk down before he went back to Todd’s room.

But god, what if Todd had locked the door? Just to be mean? He was like that, sometimes. And then Richard would be left standing in that blackness alone...

He stood there, unable to will his feet to move. He did not want Severin to know he was afraid of the dark.

“I can walk you back—or,” Severin started, then stopped.

That got Richard’s attention. “Or what?”

“Right before I fell asleep,” Severin said, gazing out toward the bedroom windows. His hand slipped from his side, revealing muscled abs and a faint, pink scar. Had Severin been hiding that? It was barely noticeable. “Right before I fell asleep, I was thinking about going stargazing tonight. Just quietly, so that I’d be able to hear the owls.”

“There are owls out here?” Richard asked. He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard one before, except in movies. He’d lived in cities his whole life.

“Yeah.” Severin smiled again, and Richard would do anything, anything to make Severin keep smiling like that. “Want to go out with me?”

“Yes,” Richard said immediately. Severin’s smile turned into a grin, two rows of white, straight teeth, and he said, “Let me go put on a shirt,” which was a minor disappointment in what was turning out to be a much-improved night.


	5. Stargazing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: _Hey, thebermuda, why don't you entertain yourself during the quarantine by writing comfort smut?_
> 
> also me: _Sounds good, but what if I take ages to get to the smut and first they have to reveal every detail of their lives and inner feelings to each other?_
> 
> Like, there will probably be spanking at some point, but I am very understanding if readers don't wanna wait for however long it takes to get there.

The sky was dunked in stars. He had never seen anything like it. Every view in the world was paltry compared to this: the Milky Way gleaming amidst a tapestry twined with indigo and navy, so many _colors,_ nothing in the way but faint wisps of clouds in the periphery and, at the very edges of his vision, the canopy of trees on the forest’s brim, every leaf inky black against the sky.

“This is incredible.” Richard’s breath misted the air. Next to him: Severin, the only warm thing. The air was chill, the grass dappled in frosted dew, the soil cold and hard.

The moon felt so close; Richard could see its texture with his naked eye. It was not remotely surprising to him that humans had been there, only that it had taken so long.

“I would give up every other view in the world for a sky without light pollution.” A sudden, hot breath of air tickled Richard’s neck; Severin had turned his gaze from the sky to look at him. “Almost every view.”

“You’ve seen something like this before?” Richard asked. It was obvious from Severin’s tone that on a different night—or nights—Severin had lay beneath the sky and contemplated exactly what he would sacrifice to keep having more of it. Richard wished he’d been there with him, wherever and whenever that’d been.

“Yes,” said Severin. “In the desert. Sometimes we’d have to go to houses far out in the middle of nowhere with nothing but our gear. Our intelligence was often faulty, so if I couldn’t find evidence that the man we were looking for—” He cleared his throat. “Anyway.”

“Keep talking,” Richard said urgently. They were on the precipice, between what colleagues shared with one another and what friends did. Richard was ready for the leap, eager for it.

“Once I rose high enough in the ranks to make my own decisions, I took my time rather than risk acting on bad intelligence,” Severin said. “It wasn’t a popular approach. Didn’t fit the military culture. But it always paid off. And sometimes, when something couldn’t be verified immediately, we would wait out on missions. In the desert, night after night. Just waiting. For someone to appear, or for the right call to come in with the info we needed. And...” He swallowed, audibly. Richard was hyperaware of every sound, every shift in intonation. “And I’d have the stars. Whole nights with nothing but the dark and the Milky Way.”

Richard knew he couldn’t imagine what being overseas for so long had been like. The military wasn’t something he thought about often, and now that knowledge gap made him feel juvenile.

For a long time he didn’t know what to say. Severin seemed content with silence, but Richard was desperate for him to talk again.

“How do you feel about coming back here?” Richard asked. “Surrounded by a bunch of people who can’t understand you.”

Severin’s breath was on his neck again. How had they ended up so close? He was sure neither of them had planned it.

“You feel like you can’t understand me?”

Richard looked at him, risking bumping their noses together. It felt important.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “You...you must feel civilians can’t understand you.”

To his relief, Severin smiled. He was so close he was a little blurry; it was like being tipsy, focusing on Severin’s lips, the flash of teeth in the dark. His teeth always showed when he smiled.

“I don’t think I’m that complicated,” Severin said. “Do you feel like I can’t understand you, because I’ve never acted before?”

“I don’t think I’m that complicated.” It was enormously vindicating when Severin laughed, a huff of heat on Richard’s lips.

Then he turned back toward the sky, which was the proper thing to do, because they needed to look and look. But Richard let his gaze linger on Severin a few extra seconds.

“How did you end up becoming an actor?” Severin asked.

Richard tensed up, because he hated when people asked him why he’d turned to theater. He didn’t know. But then he realized Severin had said _how,_ not _why,_ which was a very different sort of question.

“When I was in university I used to go to this open mic night thing,” Richard said. “It seems dorky to me now but it was the first time I ever met artists, or poets, or actors... I ended up, um, dating the guy who ran it.”

It’d been a wonderful time, although Richard hadn’t known it then, too bogged down with exams and never-ending part-time jobs and the agony of coughing up all his cash for tuition payments, sometimes going a whole week with nothing to eat but dehydrated noodles. People thought it was suitable for young people to be broke, but Richard had been _poor,_ poor in the dangerous sort of way, the I-might-get-run-out-of-my-apartment tomorrow way. And his boyfriend had been a little bit older but definitely not any richer; he was always getting by on someone else’s couch, eating the scraps off strangers’ plates at restaurants, never too poor for a glass of passably good wine.

“But that makes him sound like a loser,” Richard interrupted himself, and it was only then that he realized he’d been talking for minutes straight, an articulated stream-of-consciousness. He paused, wondering if Severin had fallen asleep.

“And he wasn’t?” Severin prompted.

“He’d had a...”

A certain charm. The kind Richard was probably too old to even notice now, like he’d grown up and couldn’t see Peter Pan anymore. But when Richard was nineteen years-old, Marcus—that’d been his name—seemed magical, the way he led a whole open mic night in the basement of a bar, dozens of eyes on him every night. His ability to quote hundreds of poems from memory, his extensive knowledge of art in any museum that had a suggested donation, and his camera.

“I think I was less afraid, back then, to experiment,” Richard said. “I knew I wanted to make art but I didn’t know how.”

It seemed crazy now, but every door had felt wide open. He could just as easily turned out to be a sculptor, or a guitarist, or a comic book artist. He’d wanted to do it all.

“So when Marcus asked me to write a screenplay, I just _did._ It was done in, like, a month. That was finals month. I would study every night and drink a lot while I did, and I’d get incredibly drunk, and before the sun rose I’d end up penning a few pages of the script, just like that.” For an entire month he was never sober, he aced every test, and he finished his first script.

“And then Marcus read it, and he wanted to make it into a movie.” Richard couldn’t remember if that had seemed amazing to him at the time, but it did now. He couldn’t imagine having the courage to write a story, to commit to paper like that, let alone having someone in his life think he’d made something genuinely excellent.

He didn’t say any of this out loud, but: Life no longer felt like it was full of wide open doors.

“The problem,” Richard continued, “was that we didn’t know many actors, and we didn’t have money to pay any. And the script didn’t really _need_ that many actors, so out of necessity, I just...”

“You starred in your own movie,” Severin said.

It was so obvious he was listening to every word. Richard no longer felt immature for never having been in the military; it was clear that he’d lived a life and had real stories and Severin cared about them.

“It should have been shit,” Richard said, “but it kind of...wasn’t?”

He hadn’t known anything about acting. It had all felt so raw and visceral, and he’d thought—at the time—that artifice was the opposite of acting.

“So I did a lot of stupid stuff. Like in a scene where my character punches and breaks a mirror—we didn’t know how to fake that, so I just _did it._ I punched it and the glass cracked and shards got in my knuckles. Marcus helped pick out the glass with tweezers, and I was bleeding so much we kept thinking I’d need stitches.” But he hadn’t, and he’d woken up the next morning feeling so _alive,_ his hand bandaged but the rest of him so, so eager to film the next scene.

“The movie ended up playing at a few film festivals, and it got some attention.” They’d won awards, which had felt memorable at the time, but now Richard couldn’t even remember which ones. All he remembered was that—“A month after it was screened in the city, a director called me up and asked me to audition for his play. He assumed I was my agent for the first few minutes of our talk. He didn’t know I was just some kid.”

“You got the role,” Severin said. His breath was tickling Richie again; Severin was looking at him.

“Yeah.” Richard stared back. He remembered that first play still. It’d been the most money he’d ever made in his life. He also remembered how the director had had Richard rehearse in a rented ballet studio, surrounded by mirrors, and how Richard had dreaded the idea until he actually did it. Seeing himself from so many angles had been a revelation: He’d never seen himself so clearly before, and it was the first time he hadn’t felt ugly. It’d been such a little seedling of self-confidence, the kind of thing that needed lots of watering.

He hadn’t felt anything resembling that in a long time. At least not until now, with Severin Moran staring at him like even the entire cosmos couldn’t pry his eyes away.

It was so silent, except for Severin’s breathing. He had such a broad, powerful chest.

“There were movie theaters at some of the bases I worked at,” Severin said. “I never really used them, though. Not often. But sometimes traveling actors would come, especially troupes full of veterans, and perform something for us. I always made it to theater night.”

“Why?” Richard asked, and just like that, they launched into film vs. theater, the power of imagination, the necessity of escapism, different times in their lives when they’d needed to escape...

It all unfolded so easily. Richard sometimes stumbled over himself, or stopped midsentence, because no one had ever listened to him so carefully. Every time he was certain he was boring Severin, Severin would ask another question, or make just the right observation to prove that he was listening with his complete attention.

They spent hours that way, until they returned to the stars.

Severin, it turned out, knew every constellation. And he pointed them out, his fingers trailing the sky as Richard’s ears trailed the rough-stoned path of his voice.

And then he stiffened.

“What was that?” he whispered. He’d been so sure they were alone out here, and the idea of someone listening in was terrifying.

“What was wh—”

_Chchchchch._

Richard jolted. Severin sat up immediately.

“What do you hear, Richie?” He looked so serious and protective, scanning the yard, squinting into the blackness between the trees. Richard was suddenly aware of all the negative space around them, the gaping dark.

 _Chchchch._ He flinched as the sound was accompanied by movement, a tiny shadow darting just ahead.

“What _is_ that?”

Severin looked up. “It’s a bat. Look. There are more of them.”

He pointed, but for a long moment Richard didn’t see. Then he noticed the dark, flitting shapes speckling the spaces between the branches and the sky. Little bats, all around them.

_Chchchch._

“They sound like they’re cracking nuts,” Richard said.

“You’re really hearing the bats?” Severin sounded amazed.

“Yeah. Why?”

“It’s rare. Only some people can hear their frequencies.”

Richard sat with that information for a moment, oddly touched—by his new, special gift, and by Severin, for knowing it was special. To think he’d gone his whole life being able to hear bats but had never known it, because he hadn’t ever really left the city, except to go to another city.

“Where do bats go during the day?” he asked suddenly.

“They sleep in trees, little nooks and crannies,” Severin said. “They go to sleep just as the sun rises.”

Which wouldn’t be too long from now. A contented exhaustion blanketed over Richard, and he became aware of Severin’s breathing deepening beside him. He wondered if they ought to go inside, but he felt like that’d break the magic, the utter relaxation in his bones, if he dared step away from the cold, hard soil.

But in the end, they found themselves upside down in the hollow of a tree. They were there together, and they fit perfectly. They must have been there for some time, because Severin was midsentence.

“—I knew you were special, from the moment I met you.”

Images flashed by like on a projector, and Richard saw himself from Severin’s eyes, which was even clearer than the ballet studio mirrors were.

Richard moved like a dancer, long graceful legs and sashaying hips. When he walked across the backstage room to meet Severin, he looked like he was a model in a one-man fashion show, like a spotlight should be on him to capture his every movement.

And when he spoke, his voice flowed easily into laughter like chimes, and Severin melted into it, feeling too old and too big to even shake Richard’s hand, like an ogre handling fine china.

 _Don’t say that, Severin,_ Richard chided, even as he _was_ Severin, and then their perspective shifted, so that Richard was Richard again, and Severin was Richard, too, and together they were both looking at Severin on the day they’d first met, at the moment when they’d shaken hands.

Severin’s hand was so _big,_ his grasp so firm, and he was the handsomest man Richard had ever seen. Even his calluses— _yes, even your calluses, Severin,_ for he could feel Severin’s disbelief—had charmed him utterly. For the rest of the day all other human beings looked like pale imitations of people compared to Severin—

For the rest of the day they watched from behind the curtain while Richard rehearsed on stage, and he moved like water, pure sensuality—

Memories flew by, of every moment they’d cherished each other’s presence in the short time they’d known each other, and at the same time they never left their crook in the tree, two cuddling bats, snuggling safe and upside down with one another. Severin was murmuring in Richard’s ear, not words but _feelings,_ all warmth, all deep oranges and sighing reds, the colors of sunrise...

Richard inhaled and opened his eyes.

 _Just a dream,_ he thought, looking around for the guest room, for Todd.

But some of it had been real. He was actually in the backyard of the mansion. He had really slept outside, and Severin Moran was really sleeping beside him.

The dream. He’d told Severin about his first movie—

No, that’d been a real conversation. And Severin had talked about the military and his travels and why he loved theater.

And the first time he met Richard...

Richard remembered it so clearly, and it was unnerving because it was not a point-of-view that held any logic: He’d seen _himself,_ himself from the body of another person at the precise moment when that person fell in love with him. Because that’s what it’d been, before they’d even shaken hands—Severin had fallen in love with him at first sight.

He sat up, heart pounding despite the quiet, peaceful morning. That was crazy. It didn’t make sense. It’d been a _dream,_ an incredibly stupid, narcissistic dream. He’d definitely never been so full of himself before, but it hadn’t been _real._ Severin hadn’t even wanted to share a room with him before—he’d said something so offensive about it to Todd that even Todd didn’t want to repeat it to Richard.

It’d only felt real. Even the blurry parts, the tree full of damp moss and Severin’s little bat-mouth murmuring against his ear.

Yes. A dream. A very memorable, pleasant dream. Severin Moran was not in love with him.

Severin’s eyelids flickered, and he took in a breath like a small gasp. Richard witnessed the very first moment of Severin waking up, and he was gorgeous.

 _I could be gorgeous,_ Richard thought quietly, ashamed to share the thought even with himself. Dream or no dream—he’d seen himself through someone else’s eyes, and he’d been attractive. Pleasing. Alluring. The dream made something possible that had not been possible before.

“Good morning,” said Severin, blinking up at him, his easy smile already coming to life.

 _I could be wanted,_ Richard thought.

“Good morning,” he said, and he winced, because he’d only just registered how stiff his neck was. “Shame we didn’t think to drag a mattress out with us.”

Severin chuckled but got up easily enough, offering a hand to Richard.

 _I could be wanted,_ Richard thought again, as Severin lifted him from the ground. As he followed Severin dazedly back into the mansion, the door swinging wide open: _I could be wanted by him._


	6. Sleepy Afternoon

The downside of having had a lovely night with Richard was that Richard was sleepy the next day. The upside of _this_ was that he looked so cute shuffling around the manor house, little shadows under his eyes, his hair all scruffy like he was too sleepy to pick up a comb.

Severin tried to stifle his own yawns, aware that several people—especially Inge—had exchanged knowing glances when Severin and Richard returned to the house together, mutually exhausted. What exactly did they think? That Severin and Richard had _slept together_ in the yard?

Now they were all eating sandwiches and playing boardgames in a sunroom, a glass wall letting in gushing clear light and a view of a rose garden. The domesticity of it all—the sheer, civilian calmness—made any awkwardness more than worth it. He felt almost euphorically pleased with his plate of cheese sandwiches, his tiny cardboard Scrabble letters, Richard’s oversized sweater, its frayed sleeves falling past his hands no matter how many times he pulled them up, the way he bit his bottom lip when he couldn’t decide what word to put down.

“I’m too tired to spell,” Richard sulked. Severin ached to touch him. He was almost getting used to that ache, which was like saying he was getting used to holding a hydrogen-filled sun inside himself. “I’m gonna go take a nap.”

“Busy night?” Inge asked, a _very_ communicative eyebrow raised. Luckily, Richard didn’t seem to notice, waving vaguely as he slipped out of the sunroom. She turned her eyebrow on Severin, who elected to ignore it.

He tried, also, to ignore the way his whole body felt like it was being tugged out into the hallway, like there was a rope between him and Richard and it got tighter with every step Richard took away from the room.

Ridiculous. It couldn’t be healthy to feel this way, right? And he couldn’t exactly go chasing after Richard.

“Mr. Moran, it’s your turn,” a young actress, Tali, prompted timidly.

If he was lucky, Richard would come seek him out again tonight. Or maybe they could go back to sharing a room. Severin hadn’t asked why Richard had abandoned Todd last night—

“—Earth to Severin.” Inge’s hand flashed in front of his face and he flinched.

“Apologies,” he said lowly. “I’m feeling a bit rough myself. I think Richard had the right idea.”

He pushed his chair away from the table, pretending not to see Inge’s knowing smirk.

* * * *

He stumbled into his room, which was nice and cool compared to the sunroom, and locked the door before collapsing onto his bed.

He was maybe feeling a bit rougher than he’d realized. His whole body felt abruptly warm. Feverish? He didn’t feel sick, just suddenly drowsy, his skin flushed.

He reached for his cock without any real conscious thought. He unzipped his jeans, untucking himself, giving his length an experimental stroke even as his eyelids grew heavy...

Severin was on his knees between two thick, muscled thighs, blond hairs tickling his cheek. _No_ —those were _his_ thighs, the scars on _his_ abdomen, his own eyes gazing down at him, heavy-lidded with lust.

But he was on his knees, too, and he felt tight, burning. There was something coiled inside him, and it could only be released by servicing Severin’s cock—

He was on his back on a mattress, the one he’d shared with Richie their first night here, and his arms were yanked above his head, his wrists pinned to the bed by strong, callused hands— _his own_ hands, and the perspective made no sense, but he wasn’t focused on that. His body was buzzing with the electric need to be touched, to be manhandled, that same pent-up need to submit.

The other Severin sucked on his earlobe, peppered kisses down his jawline, breathed against his neck—

He was on his knees and lying back on the bed at once, sucking his own cock, which was not his, getting kissed by himself, who was not him, the dream-logic of it all adding up to a formula of heady pleasure.

“God, _Severin,”_ he moaned without meaning to. He felt _mastered,_ utterly dominated by Severin Moran, and there was nothing more he wanted. He could _smell_ himself, and it was intoxicating.

His mouth was full of Severin’s cock, and he’d never felt more right than here on the floor, Severin’s hand in his hair—

Here, on the bed, Severin sucking at his neck—

About to get fucked, his hands and knees pressing against the sofa, Severin’s palm flat on his back, pushing him down, _God—_

Severin woke up with a start, his hand on his cock, stroking madly. He came in seconds, shooting a stream of come across his chest, soiling his shirt. The birds outside were chattering obliviously.

He collapsed back against the bed, breathing hard.

“Christ,” he whispered, more to center himself than anything else. He’d never had a dream that vivid before, and it didn’t make sense. What was his subconscious telling him? That he was turned on by _himself?_ There’d been someone else in the dream, too, although he couldn’t remember who. Some sweet little voice that had turned him on more than anything else.

He’d never seen himself like that before—it’d been such a realistic dream. He could remember his own scar, the texture of his own hands. And that dark, possessive look in his eyes—like he was master of the universe.

What a strange, fucked up thing to think about himself.

He didn’t see himself that way. He wasn’t—he wasn’t _any_ of those things. Definitely not dripping in sex like that, pure cocky allure. He just needed to let it go.

There was a knock on the door.

He shot upright, heart pounding. It was creepy enough to be masturbating to a fantasy of his own damn body, but to be caught doing it?

“One second,” he said desperately, pulling off his shirt and shoving it under the bed. He made quick work of zipping up his jeans, stumbling around the room in search of a second shirt, when a little voice called through the door, “It’s just me.”

He stilled. Richard. It’d been Richard’s voice in the dream. But where had it been coming from? Richard’s little moans and whimpers had made him shoot a load, and yet he couldn’t remember actually _seeing_ Richard in the dream.

He shoved the thoughts out of his head and hurried toward the door. Funny how he didn’t care if Richard saw his scars anymore.

 _Because I know he likes them._ No. That wasn’t true. But the impression of the dream was strong, and it almost felt like the truth.

He opened the door. Richard gaped at him.

“I was taking a nap,” Severin said, to explain his bare chest.

“Oh! Sorry to interrupt.” Richard swallowed hard. His hair was gorgeously mussed and his cheeks were flushed. “I woke up a few minutes ago...”

“Want to come in?”

“You don’t want to go back to sleep?”

Severin shook his head. “That’s all right. Did you need something?”

“Wanted to see if you wanted to play a game.” Richard’s blush was even more apparent as he stepped into the brightly lit bedroom. “A card game, I mean! Not out there, with everyone else... Just...”

“Just us?” Severin suggested.

Richard looked down shyly, gesturing to a deck of cards. “I brought a set,” he said softly.

Severin stood there, considering. Did Richard feel it, too? That inexpressible tug when they were in separate rooms? He mustn’t have been napping much longer than Severin before he came in here. How had he even known Severin was in his room?

“All right,” he said. “But I must warn you: I am _very_ good at Poker.”

“They’re Uno cards,” Richard said apologetically, flashing him the deck.

Severin couldn’t say why he found that unspeakably charming. He brought some pillows from the bed onto the floor for them to sit on, and he pushed all thoughts of strange dreams out of his mind as Richard shuffled the cards.

* * * *

Time slipped by. It seemed it wasn’t only the fleeting hours between midnight and dawn that flew by so easily when Richard was around—the afternoon quickly faded into sunset around them, the room dimming as they ignored everyone else in the house, Severin no longer caring about what Inge might think they were doing.

They smuggled sandwiches and cold iced tea into the bedroom for dinner, Richard giggling like they had done something brilliantly sneaky. During the afternoon, with no game to play but Uno, they’d assigned complicated rules to the game, the different colored cards eliciting different kinds of confessions from the card player. It was when Richard put down a red card, requiring him to admit to something that made him blush, that he’d told Severin how self-conscious he was of his own giggle.

“I laugh too much,” he’d said. “It’s embarrassing.”

Severin had been tempted to reveal how the sound turned him on—almost as much as Richard’s moans and whimpers. At least—how the moans had sounded in Severin’s own dream.

He’d stopped himself from saying any of that, not wanting to spoil things. He put down a wild card instead.

“I get to ask you a question!” Richard exclaimed. It was part of the rules they’d made up—wild card meant wild question.

Severin gestured for him to proceed.

“Hmm...” Richard put his finger to his chin. God. His every gesture. “What’s something you want more than anything else in the world?”

Severin laughed. This wasn’t the perfect time to bring it up, but it was probably the best chance he’d get.

“I want you to stay here tonight,” he said.

Richard cocked his head, confused.

“Instead of sharing that room full of lace doilies with Todd,” Severin clarified. “I think you should stay here. With me.”

To his sinking disappointment, Richard didn’t respond with an immediate affirmative. Even while a voice in Severin’s head hissed at him to shut up, he said, “Why Todd and not me?”

“I...” Richard looked down, picking at his sleeve. “If I let Todd down, he’s going to be mad at me.”

There were two possibilities behind those words: The first was that Richard was afraid of telling Severin no, so he was making up an excuse. The second was that he was telling the truth, and he was afraid of telling _Todd_ no.

“Then let me,” Severin said. “Let me let him down. I’ll go into his room to pick up your bag and tell him.”

When Richard met his eyes, Severin felt light at the relief he saw in them. Richard wasn’t fumbling his way through some excuse to get away from Severin—he’d sought him out, _twice_ now, and he wanted to stay, but he really just didn’t know how to let Todd down.

Severin, conveniently, had no such qualms.

* * * *

He stopped by Todd’s room once it was dark and people were getting ready for bed. The halls were full of the sounds of creaking pipes as everyone took showers in various bathrooms throughout the house.

He knocked on the door, wondering in the back of his head why Richard would dread letting Todd down. Only yesterday Severin had believed fully that Richard trusted Todd more than he’d ever trust Severin.

Todd did not seem pleased to see Severin standing in the doorway.

“Can I get you something?” he said snidely. Or maybe it was just the upright angle of his nose that seemed so snide.

“I’m here to pick up Richard’s luggage,” Severin said, his tone forcibly friendly. “He’s decided to spend the night down the hall.”

“With _you?”_ Todd said, tone so disbelieving it was insulting. Severin side-stepped him and entered the room, finding Richard’s bag easily.

Todd closed the door like he thought Severin planned on staying. He said, “He’s doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

Todd sighed. “Richard does this whenever there’s a passably attractive new member of our theater group. He...fixates. Makes the new people feel special.”

“Oh, yeah?” Severin said, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. But he couldn’t help but ask, “And how long do Richard’s fixations last for?”

“A few weeks, if you’re lucky,” Todd said. “Most people leave him, honestly. When they find out.”

“Find out what?” Severin asked.

Todd shrugged. “That he’s not who you think he is.”

“Stop being coy,” Severin growled, suddenly annoyed. “What are you talking about?”

Todd eyed Richard’s duffel bag. “You can start by taking a look in there, if you’re so curious.”

“I’m not going to look through Richard’s things without his permission,” Severin said. “Get out of my way.”

He attempted to side-step Todd again on his way out, but Todd snatched the bag from his hands and unzipped it. Severin stood there, annoyed, as Todd searched through Richard’s things.

“Should I let Richard know you’re doing this?” he asked. He felt he suddenly saw Todd a little more clearly than he had yesterday: He was Richard’s ex-lover, obviously, and a man who searched through his ex’s luggage with so little hesitation certainly wouldn’t have minded looking through his lover’s things, maybe his phone, maybe his e-mails, an invasion of privacy that was a blinding red flag.

“You can,” Todd said, like he didn’t care either way. “And while you’re at it, maybe you can ask him about this.”

He pulled out a red string—at least that’s what Severin thought it was at first, but then he saw that it was a lace G-string, hanging from Todd’s thumb. Women’s lingerie.

A rock landed heavy in the pit of Severin’s stomach. He’d been so sure Richard and Inge were hooking up when he’d first met them—their constant, secret glances, silent conversations, always giggling together. He’d settled on thinking they were just very close friends, and that Richard was gay.

Severin watched in numbed silence as Todd pulled out the matching piece to the G-string, a sheer lace camisole, small enough to fit a woman about Inge’s size.

God. Would that explain why Inge seemed so interested in Richard and Severin’s friendship? Was she concerned Richard was cheating on her, or was this some kind of fetish thing, Inge getting off on imagining Richard with a man?

He’d only kissed Richard once, and it’d barely been a kiss. What did Richard want from him?

“Put them back.” Severin’s voice came out hoarse.

Todd smirked up at him and shoved them back in Richard’s bag, zipping it up. He pushed it into Severin’s hands.

“Our little Richie is full of surprises,” he said cruelly. “Have fun with him.”

He closed the door as Severin left, and Severin was submerged in the dark hall and sudden silence. Then he heard Todd’s lock click, and he headed back to his own room, to Richard, his head full of confused thoughts.


	7. Dream Sequence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for mentions of past abuse.
> 
> Thank you for the comments, everyone. <3

Severin had a little knot of worry stuck to his chest, and the more he tried to untangle it, the tighter the rope pulled itself. Deep inside it was the horrible anxiety of what Todd had shown him—that Richard had some woman’s lingerie in his bag, that he might be dating Inge. Even deeper inside the knot was the guilt of Severin finding that lingerie without Richard’s consent. There was no way to explain to Richard that he hadn’t meant to look.

“Hey, shh.” Richard’s finger on Severin's lips, and he was suddenly there. _There_ was the military aircraft Severin had flown on the first time he’d been deployed, the Lockheed C-130, on which he’d been sent to combat in Afghanistan as a young man, one of the most anxiety-ridden plane rides of his life.

They were alone in the aircraft, standing face-to-face, Richard looking up to meet Severin’s eyes. He said, “Can I touch?”

He meant the knot. Severin didn’t need to speak because Richard could read his thoughts, so he sensed Severin’s affirmation and brushed his fingers against the knot.

It loosened, a little. Richard pointed to his own chest.

“I have one, too. Come see it?”

Severin kneeled down to face the old-fashioned keyhole in Richard’s chest. He peered through it, and there was Richard’s knot, pulsing like a heart. In the heart-knot was another old-fashioned keyhole, and another, and another, and another, and Severin looked straight through them all, seeing clearly what Richard wanted to show him.

_“Richard, you can’t use your safe word in the first three seconds of the scene!”_

_“Why did you HIT me so hard?” The sting on his cheek, the blood in his mouth, the eruption of tears, of shock, hurt, disbelief—it’d taken him a year to gather the courage to ask Todd to dominate him, and Todd had hit him immediately, like he’d only been waiting for the excuse to strike him._

_—Todd laughing with his male friends in the corner of a bar, the indefinable_ masculinity _of them all, which somehow excluded Richard, made him feel small, smaller..._

_—Richard awake alone at night, knowing his boyfriend Todd was cheating on him somewhere else in the city—_

_—Richard awake alone at night, three years before that, knowing his boyfriend Julian Ye was cheating on him somewhere else in the city—_

_“Richard, calm down—”_

_“We’re not that serious—”_

_“It wasn’t serious—”_

_“—Honestly? It’s a little hard to respect you sometimes.” That was Todd, always the most candid of them all, and the cruelest._

_“Sissy—”_

_“—Sissy—”_

_“—Sissy—”_

_“I’ve never been into sissy boys like you—”_

_—At the gym, lifting weights the night after meeting Severin Moran, because he was tired of being effeminate and therefore invisible, unwanted,_ nothing— _but was it even a matter of changing himself? Could he change even if he wanted to? And on some level, despite it all, he wanted to be himself no matter what—_

“Shh, Richie.” The little heart-knot was fluttering hard. Severin breathed into it, _hussshhh,_ and Richard sighed, leaning into him. Severin stood up again so that Richard could rest his cheek against Severin’s chest, his fingers toying with the knot still there.

When Richard looped his finger into that knot, the memories started gushing out:

_Severin’s father, the first time he hit Severin for crying—_

_His brother, Sebastian, made an animal with rage, punching and punching, Severin able to hear the crack of his own ribs—_

Wait. This wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to show Richard just one memory, more colorful, more vivid, for being recent:

_Severin attempted to side-step Todd again on his way out, but Todd snatched the bag from his hands and unzipped it. Severin stood there, annoyed, as Todd searched through Richard’s things._

_“...maybe you can ask him about this.”_

_He pulled out a red string—at least that’s what Severin thought it was at first, but then he saw that it was a lace G-string, hanging from Todd’s thumb. Women’s lingerie._

“Let me,” Richard said suddenly, and he stroked Severin’s knot in such a way that it untangled, the pressure gone, the anxiety oozing out of him. The aircraft was landing. “I’ll explain the lingerie. It’s easy if I can show you—”

And with the knot fading from his chest, Severin knew he was forgiven. It was understood that he hadn’t gone through Richard’s things, hadn’t seen the lingerie on purpose. Richard was—

A sudden clatter. Severin bolted upright, still unused to sleeping deeply, always soldier-ready somewhere in the back of his mind.

He was in the mansion. Richard was asleep beside him, only stirring now. There was another bang from downstairs, and someone shouted out in the distance, “Sorry!”

Someone was cooking early, dropping pots and pans in the kitchen. Severin lay back down, panting.

What strange, vibrant dreams this mansion was giving him. He looked over at Richard, wishing he’d been able to untie Richard’s heart-knot the way Richard had loosened his. There’d been more than one knot inside Richard, though, Severin now realized; layers and layers of them, the pain going deeper.

He rolled onto his side, reaching out to stroke Richard’s hair, and froze.

It’d been a dream. Fuck. He was lying here thinking about it like it was real, like he’d actually just had some kind of psychological insight into Richard. Everything had _felt_ so real. It was impossible to shake off the anger he now felt toward Todd, toward Richard’s other boyfriends, that Julian man—

 _He doesn’t exist,_ Severin chided himself. Just a strange figment of Severin’s own imagination.

“Severin?” Richard stirred, blinking sleepily at him.

“Good morning.”

Richard hummed softly and smiled, closing his eyes again. Severin yearned to kiss him more than anything. It was impossible to believe that that dream could have any merit in the waking world, that Richard might have ever felt a hint of self-consciousness over his androgynous features, his long eyelashes, his pink lips...

As the sun rose higher, Severin didn’t dare leave the bed before Richard. He waited until Richard finally got himself up, then listened affectionately to the sounds of Richard brushing his teeth and washing his face in the connected bathroom. Severin changed into a shirt and jeans, pulling up his zipper just as Richard stepped into the bedroom again.

Richard was still in matching pajamas, and he kneeled down to rummage through his duffel bag for a new outfit. Severin was struck with the sudden thought that, if he could pretend to glimpse the lingerie by accident, then he could ask Richard about it openly.

To his surprise, Richard held up the little sheer camisole Severin had seen last night.

“Oh yeah!” Richard said. “I was going to tell you why I brought these.”

“Right,” Severin agreed, then paused. _What?_

They looked at each other, the same question seeming to flash across Richard’s face, his lips parted in confusion. After a moment, he snapped out of it, shoving the lingerie behind his back.

“You know about my camisole?” Richard said, voice tight with tension.

“It’s okay,” Severin hurried. “I didn’t mean to. I just—last night, Todd...”

Explaining it in the dream had been so easy, because he could show Richard the memory directly, without having to say a word. Anything he said now would just sound like a pallid excuse for having gone through Richard’s things.

“Todd showed you,” Richard said faintly. “Before you could stop him.”

“How do you know that?”

Richard blinked, like he wasn’t sure of what he was saying. But he carried on, “He snatched the bag from your hands. Brought out a set to show you, and you—you thought it belonged to Inge.”

“How do you know?” Severin repeated.

Richard shrugged. “You thought Inge and I might be an item. You thought I lied to you.”

But he hadn’t. All those boyfriends—lover after lover, all male, no matter how disappointing they’d been.

“It’s always been men, for you,” Severin said.

This time, Richard asked it: “How do you know that?”

There was something unspoken in the room. They were both inching closer to it, afraid to be the one to reach out and touch it.

“You told me,” Severin said. “Showed me.”

“When? Where?”

A long pause. Severin thought about laughing this off, saying, _I mean, I just assumed._ Mentioning the times Richard had referred to past boyfriends during the waking hours.

But that hadn’t actually convinced Severin that Richard was gay. He hadn’t been sure until—“Last night. In a dream.”

Richard was still on his knees, Severin still standing, and both of them stared at each other for much longer than a minute, mutually terrified of breaking the silence.

“What are you saying?” Richard finally asked.

“I don’t know,” Severin said immediately.

“No. You do.”

“No.”

“Please,” Richard said, and he looked so upset. “Please say it.”

It was his teary-eyed expression that got to Severin, made looking like an idiot worth it if it meant making Richard feel better.

“I’m saying you told me, last night, in a dream,” Severin said, “that you’ve dated only guys—a string of assholes, frankly. And I showed you, last night, how Todd went through your bag.”

Richard was shaking his head, not in disagreement, but in sheer disbelief, trying to reckon with it.

“Richard,” Severin said, as gently as he could. “Have you ever...been a bat? Upside down in a tree?”

“No,” Richard said immediately, and Severin knew he meant _yes._

Severin was feeling something familiar, an emotion he didn’t have a word for. When had he last felt this?

It’d been when he was shot, although this time there wasn’t any of the accompanying pain. But he’d had that same jolting paradigm shift—the world being ripped wide open to him, the veil torn from his eyes, even though he’d thought he might be dying: _You live in a world where you have been shot. Bullets are not a concept anymore. Every experience is possible for you._

Every experience was possible, except for the obviously impossible. And this was obviously impossible.

Even though Richard still looked terrified, Severin was suddenly hungry for proof, a hunter, needing to bite down to the core of this.

“The first time you met me, you liked my calluses,” Severin said, laughing roughly with self-consciousness. What an ass he’d look like if what he was saying wasn’t true. “You liked the strong grip of my handshake.”

He went to Richard, on his knees, so that they were level. Richard’s breaths were shallow, a panic attack just barely being held at bay.

“There’s a knot on your chest,” Severin whispered. He wanted to put his hand over Richard’s heart, to show him, but actually touching him seemed like too much of a risk right now.

“I told you about the knots before!” Richard blurted. “I must have, how I always see anxiety as knots. I must have told you, when we were both awake—”

“You didn’t, Richie,” Severin whispered, remembering suddenly how much Richard had liked it when Severin called him _Richie_ and not _Richard._ That’d been in one of their dreams. The subconscious was so packed with memories, feelings, associations.

Richie looked up at him helplessly, so close to tears.

“It’s okay,” Severin said. “I know it’s scary, but it’s okay.”

“It’s not possible,” Richard whispered.

“Maybe not,” Severin acknowledged. “Let’s see. Let’s see if this could be real together. Okay?”

He reached out his hands, and slowly, Richard took them. He didn’t miss the way Richard seemed to deflate a little when they touched, just an ounce of that stress melting away. Severin rubbed Richard’s soft palms and said, “Tell me where your dream took place last night. Where were you?”

“Inside an aircraft,” Richard said. “The Lockheed C-130.”

It was one thing to tell Richard about his own dreams. It was another to hear about his dreams from someone else.

“Yes,” Severin whispered. “Did you know what that was before last night?”

Richard shook his head. “I don’t know how...”

“I don’t understand either, Richie,” he said softly.

“There has to be some other explanation,” Richard said. “We can’t—we can’t _share_ dreams. That’s _crazy.”_

Something about being on his knees made him remember yesterday afternoon’s nap. It seemed suddenly obvious: He hadn’t had an erotic dream about being dominated by himself. _Richard_ had been dreaming that, fantasizing about Severin, and Severin had seen the dream through Richard’s eyes.

It was too many realizations at once. First: _Holy shit. Richard has thought about sucking my cock._ Second: He knew what it felt like to _be_ Richard, to be a smaller man, to have a body so tight and eager and _thrumming_ with pleasure. Severin knew how Richard wanted to be kissed, how he wanted to be petted as he got on his knees for Severin—

He stopped the train of thought in its tracks, because he thought Richard might burst into tears if he brought up something so personal right now. Let them process this one moment at a time.

“If it’s true,” Severin said, “then it should be repeatable. Testable. We should be able to...experiment.”

“Experiment how?” Richie asked.

“Tonight, we’ll go to sleep at the same time again,” Severin said. “And if we both dream, then we’ll wake up and write our dreams down with as much detail as possible. And compare them.”

“You know about Julian,” Richie blurted.

He meant the pompous Parisian he’d dated a few years ago, before Todd. Yes: Severin had dreamt of Julian’s good looks, his charm, how his affection for Richard was at times mingled with total boredom and disdain. How Richard had spent his next few relationships waiting for his partners to become equally disinterested in him, and had his insecurities confirmed every time.

Richard’s eyes were so full of fear. He was exposed before Severin, maybe more than he’d ever been to anyone, because he’d shared with Severin _entire memories,_ direct feelings, without any knowledge that he was doing so.

“When you first came to my room last night,” Severin said, to distract him, “you said you heard me calling you, remember? But I’d been asleep.”

Richard’s eyes went big. “You were...”

“Dreaming of you,” Severin said. “I must have been.” He reached out and stroked Richard’s cheek, seeing now how a touch wasn’t at all a risk compared to what they’d dreamt last night. “It’s okay, Richie. This is going to be okay.”

It was a good sign, at least, that when he opened his arms Richard fell into them immediately. Severin squeezed him tight, and they just stayed like that, Severin holding him, breathing in the fresh, clean scent of his hair, rocking him. His emotions tilted, dizzy, swinging between utter disbelief and the creeping, gnawing certainty that this was real, because even as they were awake Severin felt entwined with Richard in a way that pushed the boundaries of the possible.


	8. The Hunter and His Rabbit

Maybe he’d spent long enough in the rose garden. 

It was difficult to will himself to move. All day he’d focused on the birds, their chirping and fluttering in the bird bath nearby. Now there was only the croaking of frogs in the distance.

Richard had never felt anything like this before. Like someone had scooped out his insides and put them on display—in a museum with exactly one visitor. He felt far more naked than naked; mere nudity didn’t compare to this.

Still. It must be past midnight. He kept half-expecting Severin to come bursting through the mansion doors to demand he come in, or to be waiting in their bedroom, pacing and wired for confrontation.

Severin was going to want to shout, to accuse Richard of something, if only acting like a baby. Richard knew his sensitivity was a trigger for other men. It made them mad, pushed them toward hurting him.

He was tired. Exhaustion wasn’t going to fix this—whatever, exactly, this was. It was getting cold, too, the roses pressed against his back hard with frost.

Okay. So he would go inside. There was literally nowhere else to go, no other thing to do. And he would sleep. Whatever was going to happen would happen.

* * * *

He went inside to quiet, sleeping halls, passing a floor of closed doors. He paused outside his own bedroom door before going up another flight of stairs. He didn’t know what was moving his feet, exactly, only that he had a destination in mind that he couldn’t consciously described.

It was a den. Right. He stepped into the doorway, his eyes adjusted to the darkness. A big man had curled himself up on a couch too small for his body, a light afghan barely covering his torso.

Richard paused, considering. He had known, somehow, that Severin was here. He had come to him without meaning to.

He gravitated toward Severin according to no one’s particular will. That was the frightening part: That neither of them were _making_ this happen, but that it was just unfolding before them, an uncanny connection.

And yet. He had a choice, on the precipice in the doorway. Severin had given him this choice, and Richard felt suddenly touched, realizing it was a gift: He had the freedom to enter this room or to go back to his comfortable, cozy bed and sleep alone. He could pretend he didn’t even know where Severin had chosen to spend the night.

He went into the room. It was a choice and yet there had also been no possibility of him choosing otherwise. He sat at the foot of the couch, Severin’s sleeping face a mere silhouette, a suggestion, in front of him.

“I’m not going to fall in love with you,” Richard whispered.

Richard knew himself. He was a feeling sort of creature. His emotions bled out from him onto just about every passing guy who would have him in any capacity. But he’d learned, too, how to shield against the blows of rejection; how to anticipate rejection in a thousand forms before it ever truly came, so that when the blow fell it hardly even registered.

Severin was sleeping on his side, looking uncomfortably cramped, his arms pulled up toward his face. Richard reached out, brushing his fingers, feather-light, trembling, over Severin’s open palm. All those calluses; thick, hardened skin. This was not the man for him. This was not a man who had ever been gentle, and Richard needed gentle.

And yet.

He’d expected to find Severin pacing in their room, eager for an argument. Instead he’d offered a kind of truce. And this morning, hadn’t Severin been the one to hug him, anchoring him when Richard felt the kind of panic that was like floating, drifting away from the world? Severin had brought him back down.

But Richard didn’t want to be an open door to _anyone._ Closing doors, keeping secrets, was his most powerful armor. He closed his eyes, his head lolling against the arm of the couch. His hand was still in Severin’s, his thoughts still jumbled and contradictory. He knew sleep was coming and he did not evade it.

* * * *

Severin was in the middle of a recurring dream where his brother tied him to a chair and beat him with a metal pot. This had only happened once in his life and it had been several decades ago, but he’d started dreaming of it ever since he got back from the war. He did not at all mind when the dream suddenly changed, shifted, so that he was freed from the chair and sucked through the floor.

He was standing in a windowless room. There was nothing there but a bare light bulb and a metal slab operating table. On the table was a quivering bunny, strapped down, quaking because the Surgeon was coming.

Even as he looked at the bunny, he _was_ the bunny, could feel its rapid heartbeat as if it were his own. He knew its fear of the Surgeon, the one who would slice it open and unravel its insides.

Severin was and was not the bunny. He was also someone else. Who? He looked down at his hands.

“Fuck!” He dropped the bloody scalpel, the one meant for forcing bunnies open. It wasn’t _his_ —he wasn’t the Surgeon—he _wasn’t—_

The dream shook, and he was in a rose garden. The bunny was here, too, thumping its foot. _Danger, danger._ The Hunter was coming.

Severin was holding a shotgun. It was not his; someone had put it there.

 _Likely story,_ the bunny thought, dashing between Severin’s feet, jumping deep into the bushes.

“Wait!” Severin cried. It was easy to follow the bunny because he was also the bunny, and yet—he couldn’t stop the bunny from running. He wanted to say he wasn’t the Hunter, but this was not very convincing when he was fully armed and donning a trapper hat.

And yet that was a little bit silly, wasn’t it?

He put down the shotgun, very aware that the bunny was peering out at him from beneath the bushes.

_"Shh,”_ Severin said, finger to his lips. _“Be vewy, vewy quiet. I'm hunting wabbits."_

He just wanted to make the bunny laugh. He discarded the trapper hat and laid down at the ground, just about eye level with a little bunny.

And he waited a long time, only time did not exist in dreams, so it was mostly the feeling of time having passed. And suddenly the bunny was there, standing on his chest, twitching his little pink nose at Severin, and god, Severin adored this bunny, how could he _ever_ think Severin was the Hunter?

* * * *

His eyes twitched open; something had woken him up.

It was a hand, gripping him. Or the soft breaths against his chest.

 _A little bunny,_ he thought sleepily, nonsensically, even though he knew it was Richard.

Richard.

Richard was here with him in the living room. He was asleep in a strange position, upright on the floor, his head leaning against the couch, neck craned at what must have been an uncomfortable angle. His hand was in Severin’s.

Severin had chosen a room in a remote corner of the mansion with the intent of not being found. He hadn’t wanted Richard to seek him out due to some misplaced sense of obligation.

But he was here, somehow. Had they dreamt together? Severin couldn’t remember. He didn’t think so. And yet—there was a warm, content feeling in his chest, a deep tenderness for Richie.

“Richie,” Severin whispered.

Richie twitched, and Severin thought again of bunnies, although he didn’t know why.

“Richie,” he whispered again, and this time Richard sat up, his face hidden in the darkness.

“You don’t look comfortable,” Severin said. “Can I carry you back to the bedroom?”

Richard didn’t verbally assent so much as he slumped into Severin’s arms when Severin reached for him. Severin picked him up easily and took him to the right room, the distance of a solid city block. He wondered again how Richard had found him.

He set Richard down on the bed, and Richard quickly curled up under the duvet. He felted watched, knew Richard’s eyes were on him as he went to the door.

“Severin?” Richard whispered.

“Yes?” Severin turned from the doorway.

“Stay with me?”

Severin closed the door and got into bed with Richard. He kept his distance, cautious.

“I think I dreamt with you,” Severin whispered, “but I can’t remember the dream.”

Richard rolled over, so that his head was nuzzled against Severin’s chest.

“I remember,” was all he said, and then they both fell back asleep.


End file.
